


the honey & the sting

by reclining



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omegaverse, Rape, Sort-of Hermaphrodites, Underage - Freeform, omega biology, service alphas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-25 01:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclining/pseuds/reclining
Summary: Stiles, omega, faces medical complications approaching his first heat. Service alpha Peter Hale proves most unkind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [Malaproprian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian) for his invaluable audiencing. Aspects of omega biology written here have also been influenced by Synesthetic's [Rewriting the future](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6772942).
> 
> Also: heed the whole 'author chooses not to use warnings' warning, because it applies.

"It's not a problem," Stiles said, looking out the car window at passing buildings. 

"It is actually the definition of a problem," his dad in full Sheriff gear and voice countered. He'd taken an extended lunch for this. He was supposed to go back to the Station after dropping Stiles back at school, but Stiles wasn't going to school; he was going straight home, so he could focus on his exercises. Doctor's orders. The Sheriff's jaw clenched in paternal frustration and upset. "I don't get how you can just blow this off –" 

"I'm not blowing anything off!" 

The Sheriff gave him a chiding, disbelieving look. 

Stiles huffed. "I'm fifteen, I thought I'd have more time, ok." He waved a hand over his face and shoulders, gesturing. "Look at me. I can't be the only one who thought it was a way's off." 

"Puberty doesn't work that way," the Sheriff said dryly. "Kiddo, you have to know these things. I thought research was the only thing you did with your spare time. You couldn't look this up?" 

"Wow, thanks for making me sound even more pathetic with a side of victim blaming." Stiles sulked, arms crossed over his chest. He felt the shameful prickle of tears. 

The Sheriff heaved a big sigh that sounded dragged out of him, then reached over to scrub across the top of Stiles' head, cupping the back of his neck. "It'll be okay," he said. "We'll figure this out." 

But there was nothing to figure out: Stiles was an omega and omegas went into heat, and his was coming for him, hard and fast like a freight train to run him over. 

*** 

The Omega Wellness website had a slick interface but all of its videos were hilariously hosted on Youtube. In his room, Stiles clicked on the first of the exercise videos. A glossy healthy omega woman in her twenties gave him a bright white smile. "Okay, omegas!" she chirped. "It's time to get your body ready for heat! The first step is a deep breathing pattern. Remember, the count is five – seven – nine. Inhale for five seconds, hold your breath for seven, and exhale for nine. Let's try it together!" 

Half-heartedly, and annoyed, Stiles followed along. The omega instructor walked him through isolating the muscle groups in his lower abdomen so that he could flex and work them. The assumption was that omegas viewing this were at the very start of presentation, with heat a long ways off. Low-key soothing music played in the background. Even before the end of the first video, Stiles was yawning in a full fit of boredom. This... this was the worst. 

He'd tried, years ago. He'd tried to do the exercises. To do the meditation. In Omega Health class, they were told they needed to meditate every night before sleep to prepare their bodies for the future. They were given visualizations, usually of a tightly furled bud opening into full bloom. _Gag._ The other omegas giggled about heat. They daydreamed and went hazy-eyed over the romantics of it, how their bodies were going to change and open. Stiles meanwhile just wanted to get back to his first person shooter video games – he was more into MMORPGs now but the impulse remained. He didn't want to think about how his body was going to change because he didn't _want_ his body to change. He liked it the way it was.

But biology didn't care, and biology didn't give him a choice. 

*** 

He'd been feeling hot and eating everything in sight for the last two weeks, but it was the headaches and sleepwalking that had grabbed his dad's attention and impelled the doctor visit. They were afraid it was going to be family medical history rearing its ugly head, but the blood tests had returned pre-heat results. That was, well, annoying, but not unexpected. 

It was the physical that showed the problem. 

After, when Stiles was clothed again and he and his dad were sitting across the desk from Dr. Keppler, who steepled her fingers and looked grave. "Your physical development is a miss-match to your hormonal development, Stiles." 

A hot flush worked its way over Stiles' face and neck. His dad cleared his throat uncomfortably. "What does that mean?" 

"It means that Stiles is going into heat when his body is not ready for him to go into heat. Needless to say, this is not ideal." 

"She means I'm not open," Stiles muttered. 

"I mean that you are not opening, not that you aren't open," Dr. Keppler corrected him gently. It didn't erase the sense-memory of her between his legs up in the stirrups, probing beneath his useless dick at the sealed tight vagina. The flesh was hard, resistant. It was supposed to feel plump and soft and welcoming. The lips were supposed to part, or to at least show signs of parting. Stiles just had a rigid seam, binding the opening closed. Dr. Keppler'd made noncommittal _hmm_ sounds. She hadn't been pleased. "Being closed isn't unusual for young omegas. You should know – if you've been paying attention to your mandatory Health classes – that often it's only in heat that omegas do fully open. However, your physical development is far off pace with your hormonal development. If this continues, it is highly likely you will go into your first heat closed and remain closed for the duration." 

"So?" Stiles muttered hostilely. Belligerently. He saw nothing wrong with this scenario. 

"So, closed heats last an average of four days longer and often include significant physical and emotional damage in the afflicted omega." Dr. Keppler gave him an unimpressed look. "Which I know you know." 

Ugh. Stiles would bet anything that was just propaganda. He'd watched the conspiracy videos. He knew how much people fetishized omegas and their heats; he knew the profit of the heat aid tools industry, how heat facilities marketed themselves. He knew his own fucking body. 

"Stiles. If you go into heat closed, then I will be strongly advising hospitalization and supervision for the duration," Dr. Keppler said. "Is that really something you want?" 

Stiles glared at her, then dropped his eyes. "No." 

"What do we do, then?" the Sheriff asked uncomfortably. Beta, some things about his omega son's physiology were just alien to him. 

"Well, we're going to do our best to slow the hormonal cycle. I'm prescribing some meds, and there are some diet changes that will help. In the meantime, Stiles, you're going to have to dedicate yourself to opening exercises. The hope here is that the exercises will work together with the hormonal cues and speed up the process so that your body gets caught up and ready."  
  
"And if that doesn't work?" his dad asked, worried and grim. 

"A few options. The least invasive will be working with a service alpha. We often find omegas respond well to this method. There are a few very competent service alphas in town that I can refer you to. The more extreme option would be surgery, which I am very hesitant to do. It can have longstanding impact. And the last would be to go into a closed heat with monitoring, which I know is something you would both like to avoid." 

Which was what led to Stiles, on his bed, jeans and boxers kicked off so his bare ass was to the ceiling as he held himself tightly into mating pose. The air kissed his bare dick and vagina and he shuddered angrily, before settling into the breathing pattern and working the muscle groups, halfheartedly going through the visual of a knotted rope slowing coming undone. He kept it up until his phone rang the alarm that let him know he could stop, then collapsed on his face. 

He reached behind him, fingers groping down his ass 'til he found his stupid cunt. He poked it with an angry inquisitive finger. Yup, still tight and hard as a drum. He ran his fingertip along the seam. It felt almost like scar tissue, insensitive, not really part of him – just something stuck on top of him, to seal a wound. He scratched along it. There was zero give. 

This fucking sucked. 

*** 

There was a whole subgenre of porn dedicated to an omega's opening. Some of them were obvious fakes – their lips were glued shut and slowly worked 'open' – but others seemed legit. Stiles hunted them down and watched them with a scowl. Never mind the obvious illegality since all of these omegas were underage; this was for _research_.

 It looked weird and unpleasant, like something out of an alien themed horror movie. 

There were some videos where the omega had someone with them, helping them. One where the omega was on her back resting against the broad chest of some guy, her legs spread wide, his hand big on her dick as he stroked her off. Some assholes said that omega dicks were only for peeing since it wasn't like they could make semen; that giving an omega's dick any attention was purposeless and over-indulgent, a way of spoiling an omega. But it fucking felt good, as Stiles could personally attest, and as the girl on his screen was proving by her moans and movements. She bucked into the hand on her, crying out in high pitch with every swipe of the man's thumb across her dickhead. 

He brought his other hand down to her cunt and the camera focused there as his big fingers massaged her lips, pinching up and down the seam, rubbing it. 

"Getting wet, sweetheart," the man rumbled. His face wasn't on screen, not like hers was. "Your honey is seeping through. Gonna open up for me? Open up that pretty pussy?" 

"Yeah," she moaned. "Yeah, 'm gonna. Splitting open for you. Fuck, fuck. Fuuuuuck." 

He began to slap her cunt, quick and harsh, first with the flats of his fingers and gradually with his whole palm. The camera pulled back enough that Stiles could see: her dick being worked, her cunt being slapped, her skin flushing dark pink, then red. Her moans rising into short screams. He saw her seam beginning to part. He saw it break open on a slap, omega slick gushing out, saw the man's thick fingers immediately plug her up. Fuck into and out of her. His thumb find her newly exposed clit. Her scream choke into a sob, strangled, her hips stuttering, fucking herself on his hand. 

Stiles reached between his own legs. The seam of his cunt felt warm. He thought he could feel his heartbeat there. 

*** 

School was the worst because all of the alphas and a solid third of the betas could tell he was going into heat, which meant, alternatively, jeering and courting. They all wanted to fuck him. It was the combination of pheromones and teenagers that did it; the lack of experience and the corresponding lack of control. Stiles threw away a fuckton of flowers and candy. He learned not to walk anywhere alone for fear of being pulled into a shadowy corner and slammed into a wall. Nothing went further than the full-body press and snuffly deep breathing, but that was mostly due to the hypervigilance of teachers and the immediate suspension policy of all offenders. The other omegas gave him dirty looks and muttered that he was making them all look bad, look slutty, look difficult. 

Stiles snapped back at them, then learned to ignore them. He hung out mostly just with Scott, though also a bit with Cora Hale, an alpha who was exclusively attracted to other alphas and, more importantly, allergic to stupid drama. 

He had hopes this was all going to mercifully end soon, but the next doctor's visit effectively harpooned those dreams. 

"There's been some progress, but in my opinion, it's not enough. I'd like to refer you to a service alpha now, while we still have some time," Dr. Keppler said. 

Stiles and his dad carefully avoided looking at each other. 

Dr. Keppler slid four business cards across the desk. "They all come highly recommended." Stiles glanced at the names. Morrell, Ennis, Ito – _Hale_? As in Cora's family? Huh. "I've contacted each of them so they know to expect you," Dr. Keppler said. "Set up some interviews. I do have to impress some urgency upon you both, however. It will be important to move fast so that you're best positioned for your heat." 

The Sheriff took the business cards, folding them carefully into his wallet. "Right," he said gruffly. There was an inherent awkwardness to the situation.  
  
"Does our insurance cover a service alpha?" Stiles asked, like he knew his dad wouldn't. 

Dr. Keppler shook her head. "Unfortunately no. I'm afraid it's going to be a necessary expense."  
  
"But it _does_ cover surgery, doesn't it?"  
  
"Stiles –"  
  
"We don't exactly have a lot of money here," Stiles cut his dad off. "We can't just ignore that."  
  
Dr. Keppler leaned forward. "I can't emphasize enough how a surgical intervention can have long-term effects on you, physically, mentally, and emotionally." 

His dad finally touched him, reaching over to squeeze Stiles' shoulder. "It's not your job to worry about the money," he said firmly. "You, kid. Me, dad. I figure that out. You just let yourself be taken care of." 

"You wouldn't say that if I weren't an omega," Stiles muttered mulishly.  
  
" _Hey_." His dad gripped Stiles' chin and turned it so Stiles faced him. "Omega, beta, or alpha, you'd still be my kid and this would still be my job. So turn off the attitude." 

Stiles subsided, but he was far from happy about it. 

*** 

Satomi Ito turned out to be an alpha in her seventies, which wasn't an automatic no. But in their brief interview at the coffeeshop, Stiles got the feeling _he_ was the one being evaluated and not her. She asked him some questions about the standard breathing and visualization exercises and how he responded to them, and seemed unsurprised by his response. Then she turned to his dad and said, "Your son is a lovely young omega, but I'm afraid my methods will not be a match for him as they build upon the standard strategies, which do not seem to be working for him. I regret I cannot be of service to you both." And she patted Stiles' hand, then stood and left without waiting for a reply. 

Stiles and his dad blinked at each other, then sighed. "Okay," his dad said. "Who's next?" 

The Sheriff vetoed Ennis upon first sight. It probably didn't help that Ennis eyed Stiles up and down like an actual slab of meat, and like he was starving. Stiles squelched the small voice of protest in the back of his mind that thought hey, maybe he'd _like_ that. He couldn't help but flash back to that one porn vid, those big fingers, hard and punishing against the omega cunt. 

Hale turned out to be Peter Hale, too old to be Cora's big brother and too young to be her dad unless he'd had her in his teens. Stiles deduced cousin or uncle. Peter personified smug, though he hid it with charm. Stiles' dad wasn't fooled, but he did let Peter in the door, something Ennis hadn't managed. 

Peter wasn't as physically imposing as Ennis, who had been over six feet of muscles and leer, but he had a thick neck and muscled arms and his thighs seemed reassuringly solid. His eyes were very blue and his goatee well-trimmed. His gaze warmed palpably when it landed on Stiles, and his smile got somehow even smarmier. "So you're Cora's friend," he said. He offered his hand first to Stiles, and his grip was firm and callused. "Good to put a name to the face." 

Stiles cleared his throat. "Likewise." 

His dad obviously did not like Peter, but there wasn't much on the surface of things to protest against. Peter was exceedingly proper, polite and restrained, professional. He talked about how long he'd been offering himself as a service alpha (seven years), and the precautions he had in place for an omega's safety and comfort. "I'm mostly called upon to help an omega through their heat, for those who prefer temporary companionship. I can provide references if you find it necessary." 

"So you don't have experience with –" the Sheriff gestured at Stiles, still unable to put it into words. 

"I wouldn't say no experience," Peter purred. He stared at Stiles unblinkingly for a beat, then blinked and smiled. But there had been something – uniquely hungry – in his gaze. Stiles shuddered. His dad, embarrassingly, caught it. So did Peter, but his smile only deepened. "I've also done my due diligence. I have a good idea for what Stiles likely needs to get ready for his heat." 

The Sheriff wasn't in love with the idea of Peter being Stiles' service alpha, and it showed. It didn't help that Peter laid out a plan for an initial two day long session to be held at his home, with shorter follow up sessions as needed. 

"Frankly," Peter said, "Stiles' case isn't totally unique, but it is rare. The other similar cases I've managed to find have almost all required a very intensive and intense initial session, mostly for bonding purposes. Temporary bonding," he amended at the Sheriff's glare. 

"I find it surprising that you know so much about Stiles' case," his dad said suspiciously. Stiles was hotly embarrassed and wanted nothing more than to just hide his fucking face. 

"I believe in thorough research and preparation," Peter said smoothly. Then he winked at Stiles, like a suicidal idiot. 

The interview didn't last much longer past that. Peter's parting handshake did linger, his grip firm and solid on Stiles' hand. He caught Stiles' shiver and smirked. The Sheriff cleared his throat and broke them up. 

"Not one word," the Sheriff said as the door closed behind Peter. "Not one." 

Stiles cackled, earlier embarrassment falling away into glee at his dad's discomfort. 

The last candidate, Marin Morrell, was around the same age as Peter – or maybe older – or maybe younger. She had a Sphinx-like expression. She was beautiful and polished and reminded Stiles discomfortingly of his long-time crush Lydia Martin, in attitude if not in appearance. Morrell also had a way of eyeing Stiles that made him feel like a specimen. 

She did, however, come with a price tag of zero attached to her services. "As long as you consent to being a part of my study on omega physiology and sexuality," Morrell clarified. 

The catch was that the sessions would be held at her workplace, Eichen House, no exceptions. And, like Peter, Morrell believed in extended length sessions. She took it even further, saying that non-interference was required between sessions as well. Stiles would also have to consent to signing in to Eichen for however long it took, a week to a month. He involuntarily flinched when she laid the details down. 

But it didn't really matter, did it? It was just for a little while, not permanent. And it would cost them nothing. So, he could handle it. He'd have to handle it. He couldn't let his stupid omega body screw them over. 

He knew how to lie to his dad, to make his dad believe him when he said, "I think she's the one. I have a good feeling about her." 

And ignore the sinking of his gut when his dad scruffed his head with a fond hand and said, "Yeah? Okay. I'll work on getting it set up." 

*** 

He'd kept his meager social circle updated on his Adventures in Omega'ing, though light on the details. Cora had made a disgusted face when she heard her uncle was in the running as one of Stiles' service alphas, though she'd just scoffed and said, "Figures," when Stiles added that Peter was too expensive for their checkbook. Then she slunk back the next day with an even more disgusted expression to tonelessly relay that Uncle Peter was willing to offer the friends of family discount. She added, "You really made an impression, Stilinski. It's gross." 

Scott's face seemed to agree with her. But it didn't matter since, even with however big a discount that was, it still didn't beat Morrell's zero. 

Up until the actual turning of Stiles over to Eichen House, he really thought he could go through with it. He really thought the plan would work. But standing in Morrell's office, going through the paperwork – hearing her say that no, sorry, he couldn't keep his pillow with him, House rules – the walls seemed to rear up and close in, and suddenly for the first time Stiles was claustrophobic. His breathing began to stutter. 

"I – I can't," he said. "I don't want to. I don't want to do this. Dad, please don't make me." 

His dad's face went pained. "Stiles..." 

"I'll give you two some privacy," Morrell said smoothly, standing and exiting the office. As soon as the door shut behind her, Stiles was burrowing into his dad. 

"Please, please don't make me," he said. "Please don't." 

"We're running out of time, kiddo," his dad said. "We don't have a lot of options." 

"I just can't do it. I can't stay here. Daddy, please." 

It was the nuclear weapon, and it worked. His dad's arms reached around and enclosed him, strong and comforting and familiar. "Okay," he said, quietly. "Okay, we'll figure something else out. Let's go home." 

*** 

The 'something else' was either surgery, which only Stiles seemed to think was a good idea, or Peter, which seemed to bring his dad to the brink of aneurysm. But there wasn't time for debate or doubt. 

His dad made the call with Stiles curled up next to him on their sofa, his dad rubbing his back. Stiles went off and away in his head, drifting. He heard the dim rumble of his dad's voice setting up the appointment, and honestly couldn't tell which he was destined for – surgery or alpha – until after his dad sighed and told him, "Peter's shifting some things around. You're going to go over there the day after tomorrow. Okay, buddy?" 

Stiles snuffled and nodded his head, and hid his face against his dad's chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head's up, next chapter earns the Dead Dove Do Not Eat warning.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter's house was out by the Preserve, in the woods in the middle of nowhere. He'd emailed a map and told Stiles to pack light, eat light, and shower well before trekking out. _You'll be able to drive most of the way, but the last leg is a bit of a hike, so plan accordingly._ The Sheriff had been the definition of unimpressed.

"I'll drive you out," he insisted.

"Yeah, no," Stiles said. "This has eaten into your work hours enough. It'll be okay. I'll be okay." He'd only had a day to recover from the Eichen mess, but he'd managed to slap a semblance of calm over his upset.

His dad wasn't happy, but he didn't push. They hugged goodbye the morning of and his dad reminded him to keep his phone on and charged, that he'd be calling in for updates. Then Stiles got in his Jeep and drove away.

***  
  
Satomi Ito's methodology had been built upon the foundation of traditional omega presentation exercises. Stiles had looked her up after their brief meeting, out of curiousity and the slight sting of rejection. Apparently she helped omegas through guided meditation. Stiles spent a few brief moments picturing that in the middle of heat, and was caught between hilarity and horror. Ennis (first name? last name? who knew) had a massage therapy education and marketed himself mostly for that online. So.... yeah, that was something Stiles' dad had arbitrarily deprived him of, thanks. Morrell had laid out her treatment plan during their meeting. She went into almost excessive detail as part of her informed consent thing. It had involved, like Ito, guided meditation, but also restraints and TENS unit usage to target specific areas of Stiles' body, and her own alpha scent and voice. Stiles may have made a few, or a lot, of inappropriate electroshock jokes.   
  
Peter had been vague about his own methods. Deflected, with silky voice and smiling eyes, which was probably a big part of why Stiles' dad distrusted him. "I prefer to go a physically intensive route," Peter had said. "Take my client through her – or his – paces."  
  
Stiles' dad had clenched his jaw so strongly Stiles was afraid he'd break a tooth. "Care to expand on that?" the Sheriff asked.  
  
Peter hummed. "Nothing inappropriate, I assure you," he said, as he eyed Stiles inappropriately. He was like a walking Stranger Danger ad.

Driving to Peter's place now, Stiles kind of wished he'd pressed for real answers. Nerves wracked him and put a tremor in his hands. He fell back on his stupid omega breathing exercises for calm. Five count in, seven count hold, nine count out. Repeat. Repeat. Before he knew it, he was outside of the Preserve, by the hiking path Peter had indicated him to take.  
  
He stood outside his Jeep, patting its hood goodbye, hoisting his duffel bag of clothes and pillow over his shoulder; locked the door, pocketed the key; hesitated. Peter intrigued him, in a hot older guy sort of way, a dirty uncle type – gross, but somehow still weirdly sexy. Whatever they were going to do together was probably going to be pretty intense. Stiles blushed. Alpha scent, probably? Maybe massage, like Ennis. Maybe cuddling. Maybe more? Probably not much more. Stiles was underage and his dad was the Sheriff. Peter was sleazy but he wasn't stupid.   
  
Okay. He did the breathing exercise again, and then kept it up as he started his hike. _Calm_ , he told himself. _Be cool._  
  
***  
  
It wasn't a bad hike. The trail was nicely broken and not too much on an incline. It was before noon so it wasn't even hot yet, and the sun filtering through the trees made everything look idyllic and like a nature photograph. Stiles could even hear wildlife rustling in the bush. He slowly found himself relaxing as he settled into a regular gait. He had to keep himself from whistling. Peter's email had made it seem like it would take Stiles the better part of an hour to walk out to his place and at the time Stiles had bit back complaints, but now he was actually enjoying nature. Who knew? Stress unwound in him. It was actually... nice.  
  
It happened fast, disorienting, in flashes. A sudden presence behind him. A sudden grip around his neck, forcing his head back, dragging him off his feet. His arms flailed, his legs kicked. His duffel bag dropped with a thud. He reached to loosen the arm choking him. It flexed. Stiles dug his fingers into it, gripping. He was pulled backward, off the path. Whoever had him slammed his head into a tree. His vision greyed, then dizzied. He tried to shout, but couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe. The world spun. Trees, sky, sun, spiraled. Dragged further off the path, into brush, into woods. Bitterness flooded his mouth; he felt his pulse in his throat.  
  
Sudden release, dropping him to his knees. Adrenaline. He stumbled to his feet, but clumsy, slow. Violent hands grabbed him, pulled his shirt over his head, blinded him, bound his arms. He fell forward, back to his knees. His heartbeat pounded in his temples. He struggled. He tried to move. That strong arm wrapped around his waist. Hauling him, like a sack of meat. Throwing him. Everything dark, everything close. Everything confused. He landed against something, his cheek thudding hard on rough texture through the fabric of his shirt – another tree. Those hands back, at his waist now, popping open the top button of his jeans, unzipping him. He kicked out, screaming through his shirt. His head was grabbed through his shirt, slammed against the tree. Starburst of pain. Jeans pulled down. Boxers pulled down. Knees hobbled. Ass, bare.  
  
He had no balance. He was toppling. That dominating hand pinned him against the tree. Everything went hazy and wrong, so fucking wrong. He couldn't breathe.  
  
Harsh grunts in his ear. Panting breath. A growl, animal. But not animal. He was held in this locked pose for a handful of pounding heartbeats. He tracked the gradual calming of his attacker's breathing pattern. Eventually, he was pulled away from the tree and slung over his attacker's shoulder, carried in a fireman's throw.   
  
He didn't pass out, but he did go away. Deep in his head. Shocky and adrift.  
  
***  
  
"It really is fascinating," Peter said, because of course it was Peter, as he arranged Stiles on the breeding bench and bound his limbs to the appropriate posts. "Omega docility. The instinct is so strong. It takes a bit of effort to trigger it, mind you, but once it has been – you're a little ragdoll, right now, aren't you? Sweetheart." He snapped his fingers in front of Stiles' blank eyes. "Hey, hey. Come on now. Come back."  
  
_I'm still here_ , Stiles wanted to say, but he wasn't yet. Not fully.   
  
Peter slowly dragged his index finger in front of Stiles' field of vision, horizontally, vertically, diagonally, until finally Stiles began to sluggishly track.  
  
"There you are." Peter smiled. "Hello, Stiles."  
  
"Pe'er," Stiles slurred.  
  
"Good boy." Peter patted Stiles' knee. Stiles had been arranged belly-up, half-reclining, one leg pulled to the side and extended, ankle secured, the other leg doubled to his chest and bound with leather, both arms pulled over his head with wrists together, secured to a vertical pole. Most of his weight was supported by the bench section against the middle of his back. It left him opened and exposed and tenuously balanced. He was naked, but he couldn't feel it, not yet. The shock and the shame; the outrage. It was simmering just beyond reach. He could feel it waiting to crash down on him like a panic attack. Before it could happen, Peter reached between his legs and stroked his dick. Stiles' hips jolted, from startlement, not arousal. "Good instincts," Peter said approvingly. "I'm just going to play with you for a bit, sweetheart. Don't worry about anything. Just relax."   
  
It was impossible to relax in this pose. Stiles' abdominals shuddered, his core struggling to support him. It was impossible to relax as Peter warmed lubricant between his hands and then slicked all over Stiles' cunt, down to his taint. Then back to his dick, rubbing it up and down, making a tight ring with his fist to tease Stiles' dick into an erection.   
  
"You're very cute," Peter remarked approvingly. "Nice little cock. Do you think you can squirt?" It was a rhetorical question, as Peter didn't seem to expect an answer. He ran his fingertips along the seam of Stiles' cunt. "And this is cute, too. A closed up little omega cunt, no good for breeding. That's what they all want from you, sweetheart. To pry open your tight little womb. But you don't want that, do you?" His fingers back to Stiles' taint, then further, pushing deeper. Circling Stiles' rim, fingertips pushing in. "This is the hole you want fucked."  
  
Stiles flinched his whole body back as far as it could go. Peter chuckled. He pulled his hand away. He leaned over Stiles, breathing hotly against Stiles' face, then kissed his cheek tenderly. The bristles of his goatee were abrasive on Stiles' sensitized skin. "There's no one to hear you, but I don't think I'll let you scream. Not this time anyway." He reached over, above Stiles' head, and pulled down a ball gag. Stiles had come back into himself enough to make it a struggle, but Peter's grip was implacable, forcing open Stiles' jaw. "There," Peter said, not even winded. He patted Stiles' cheek solicitously. "Gorgeous."  
  
Peter didn't strip down, not entirely. He opened his belt and unzipped, pushed his jeans and boxer-briefs down his thighs, and slicked his erection. His cock was already pearling at the tip. "I thought when I first saw you that you'd be good to fuck," he said, conversationally. "I'm very glad you and your father picked me to service you, Stiles. So happy you chose this."  
  
Protesting noises rose and choked in Stiles' throat. Peter chuckled. He used one hand to guide his cockhead to Stiles' asshole, the other hand to rest against the back of Stiles' neck and tilt his head down, to make sure of the angle, to force Stiles to see. "Keep your eyes open or I'll tape them open," Peter warned. Despite the authoritative words and tone, his words came out slightly jagged, too breathy. His dick was dark red-purple, high contrast against the paleness of Stiles' skin. He felt so huge against Stiles. So huge pushing into him.   
  
Stiles was afraid, wanted to move – was bound, immobile. Couldn't even shift his gaze. Peter made him watch for the entire first push inside. Then Peter held himself still, rubbing his fingers along Stiles' stretched rim around his dick.   
  
The feeling was too big to describe. A violent shift in Stiles' knowledge of his own body. Peter had just pushed right into him, like he had that right. And now Peter was a solid, conquering shape inside of him.   
  
"Was this a virgin hole, sweetheart?" Peter smiled. He began to thrust.   
  
_Yes_ , Stiles wanted to shout, wanted to sob. _I'm a virgin, I don't want this, I don't want you, get out of me, stop hurting me._ It didn't hurt physically. Peter hadn't been gentle or slow, but he'd known how to touch and how to move, and there was no damage. But it hurt – somewhere else. Somewhere that couldn't be touched. Somewhere tender and holy that was being degraded in this act.   
  
After a few minutes, Peter didn't make him watch anymore. He used his hand to jerk Stiles' dick off instead, letting Stiles' head tip back, his eyes fix to the ceiling. The room was dim, with floor to ceiling shelving filled with indistinct shapes that Stiles couldn't focus on. Stiles tried to dissociate and let his body relax into the rhythm, but relaxing put too much pressure on his wrists and he snapped to attention at every jerk and pull on them.   
  
The worst part was how good it felt to be fucked this way. Stiles had always thought – he'd always been curious about it. He'd always thought, to a nonexistent mate, here, fuck me here, don't obsess over my cunt. The weird omega fetishization had always freaked him out. He never felt curious about his cunt the way he did about his ass, never felt _ownership_ of his cunt the way he did his ass. And it felt like a fundamental betrayal to have those suspicions affirmed, that yes, it could feel this good to be penetrated in that hole instead. Feel this good to have a skilled hand pulling on his dick as he was fucked up the ass. He'd always wanted to know, but he didn't want to know like _this_.   
  
Peter sped up inside of him, bruising and furious, and then pulled out, too fast, too shocking. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against Stiles' open asshole, soothing it, petting it as Stiles gasped from the abruptness. Then Peter laid his erection along the rigid seam of Stiles' cunt. He grasped the back of Stiles' neck again and pulled Stiles' gaze down. "Look, sweetheart," Peter murmured. His dick twitched and began to pulse. Peter thrust it along the seam of Stiles' cunt, rubbing off, little jets of semen painting Stiles' skin. Peter began to pant against Stiles' cheek. When he was finally done, he rubbed his semen in, stroking up and down the seam of Stiles' cunt. Then he exhaled, long and hard, and stepped back, dragging up his jeans and underwear, tucking himself back in.

 

"That was fun," Peter smirked. "Thank you for indulging me." Stiles did his best to convey outraged hate through power of a glare alone. Peter chuckled and patted his cheek. "Cute."  
  
***  
  
The breeding bench was adjustable. Peter unbound Stiles from it and carried him to a low sofa, setting him down with care, then returned to the bench to change its configuration. While his back was turned, Stiles tried to get up – force his body to move. Force his body to crawl, if that was the best it could do. Fatigue and shock kept him trembling. Crawling really _was_ the best he could do. He couldn't even summon the dexterity to undo the stupid fucking ball gag, Christ.  
  
He'd been near collapse and only halfway across the room by the time Peter turned, saw him, and tutted softly. "Poor baby," he said, softly mocking. "All tuckered out. Let's get you pacified, hm?" And picked Stiles up and carried him back, back to the bench.   
  
Stiles struggled, but he was weak and he'd spent what strength he had. This time, Peter arranged him on his stomach, in traditional mounting pose. Head down, ass up. Arms separately bound. Ankles secured, calves secured. A strap around his neck to keep his head immobile. Weight evenly distributed along his torso to minimize stress. It was textbook. This was how traditionalists kept their omegas for the entire heat period; this was Stiles' fucking nightmare. Peter stood behind him and stroked along Stiles' closed cunt, rubbing the seam gently. Then Peter worked something into Stiles' ass; something hard and unyielding, filling him up. Once it was in, Peter tapped it gently. "So you don't get too lonely," he said. Then he did the worst thing, and left.   
  
It didn't seem like the worst thing at first. Stiles was naked and bound and vulnerable, but the room was warm and it wasn't dark, and he wasn't being fucking raped. It seemed like a step up.  
  
He didn't know how long it took for his heart rate to come down. When it did and he was finally calming was when the shock broke and the trauma came in. He moaned, piteously, and tried to curl into himself. Peter had bound him so thoroughly, had spread his limbs just enough to deny any illusion, any comfort. Stiles tried to rock himself, but the breeding bench was too steady. He tried to shake his head, but couldn't move even that with how his neck was secured. He held himself tense, rigid, and worked himself into a shiver. He was uncomfortably aware of whatever Peter had shoved up his ass, just as he was uncomfortably aware of the ball gag in his mouth.   
  
He wasn't aware of the tears until he heard them hit the ground. Then he blinked too rapidly and they stung his eyes, and he couldn't even rub them away. He sobbed around the gag, had to breathe in harshly through his nose. He didn't know why he hadn't cried when Peter was hurting him, why only now – but he was glad. He was so fucking viciously _glad_ that Peter didn't get to have this too.   
  
It felt like forever that he shivered, and shuddered, and sobbed, shaking in his bonds. He built himself into a hysteria that he had no way to express, so that it rose up and folded over and compressed deep inside of him. He moaned, low and continuous, a wounded animal. Eventually, he relaxed into the bench and let it support him, let the straps and ties hold him together.   
  
Then he felt loneliness encroach. It was a different cold than physical. It seeped outward from his core til it suffused him from crown to toe. He began to shiver again, out of a deep nameless horror. _His alpha had abandoned him_. No. Peter – wasn't. He _wasn't_.   
  
Stiles didn't know why this was happening, how Peter planned to get away with this. It was insane. It was assault. Stiles' dad was going to fucking crucify Peter. Stiles _knew_ all that. Stiles knew that Peter wasn't – he wasn't –   
  
Peter wasn't _here_.  
  
It was torment, it was grief. It was bereavement. Loss wracked Stiles, gripped him, shook him. He clenched his eyes shut. No, _no_. He didn't want Peter. He didn't want Peter to hold him. What the fuck, no.   
  
***  
  
He was smart, he'd done his research. He'd still only ever heard of omega docility once before, buried in the fucking trashy traditionalist screeds about an omega's place.   
  
Omega docility, which was the first stage.... Stiles frowned. The first stage of a trauma bond.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dun


	3. Chapter 3

The baby monitor let Peter keep track of Stiles' breathing rhythm as he moved around the kitchen, putting together a belated lunch. He ate a turkey sandwich at the kitchen table and rooted around in Stiles' duffel. Stiles had packed a pillow. Peter smirked. He pulled it out and fluffed it. What a cute kid. He put his face above the pillow and inhaled. The musky scent of an omega edging on the precipice of heat rose up, a sweet perfume. Peter smiled. He'd get his scent on it as well and make the pillow a good anchor element for the heat nest.  
  
He finished his sandwich, made some coffee, and sat drinking it while listening as Stiles' breathing hitched into strangled little sobs and cries. Peter checked the time. He'd had Stiles for less than an hour now, so they were actually ahead of schedule. He flipped through the file from Keppler's office. She wasn't the most insightful doctor – a GP, not an omega specialist, and a beta, not an alpha or omega. She also had shit security. It had been laughably easy to gain access to her paperwork.  
  
Peter eyed Stiles' most recent bloodwork. It wasn't actually all that recent. He'd bet his bones that the hormone levels would be markedly different if the same tests were run right now. Keppler really should have known to keep up on that. Her lack of vigilance opened the door for Peter, however; there was a big enough gap for it to be believable that Stiles' sudden onset heat was natural and not triggered.   
  
Well. Peter glanced at the baby monitor, where Stiles was failing to self-soothe and was instead getting increasingly agitated. Not triggered _yet_ , anyway.  
  
Fed and fortified, Peter grabbed a bottle of water and a bowl and returned to his workroom. Stiles looked just as lovely as Peter had left him, long and lean and young, bound in black leather, against dark wood. Pretty as a picture, head submissively down, ass tantalizingly canted up. Peter had used a black silicone plug on him and he removed this first, without warning. Stiles was too well bound to move much but his hips twitched, and his hole spasmed. Peter put the plug down on his workbench along with the water bottle and bowl. He unzipped, slicked up his dick, and fed it into Stiles' hole, settling into an efficient fuck.   
  
It was brisk and impersonal, and he wasn't fully hard at the start. He put one hand on Stiles' back and used the other to grip Stiles' hip. But the visuals were working for Peter, and the sounds; the moaning sobs that Stiles hadn't managed to stifle, the shaking tremors wracking Stiles' bound frame. Stiles' lightly muscled back was so pretty. The slope of his bent neck was poetic. Peter bit his lip to keep from telling Stiles how good he was, what a sweet omega, such a nice hole for his alpha to fuck.  
  
Peter worked himself up and had to pinch his thigh to keep from coming. It didn't help that Stiles' breathing had gone into rut-rhythm, deep from his guts, building from the count that all omegas were taught without ever knowing why. Whenever Peter began to feel the vague prickles of conscience, he remembered that society did a far better job than he ever could in ruining an omega. In turning omegas into a perfect set of warm holes for breeding and pleasure. And Stiles... he was so good for Peter. The way he'd fought. Peter rumbled deep in his chest, remembering the hunt, the claim. His pace intensified, and his hand on Stiles' back splayed possessively, for a few heartbeats. Then he exhaled. All right, enough, any more and he would spill. Peter pulled out, tucked his erection away, and pushed the plug back into Stiles' twitching hole, quickly, before Stiles could really react.   
  
Until Stiles' heat was in swing and the scent was enough to drive Peter's libido, Peter would have to take care to keep himself able to fuck. It was more important for Stiles to feel owned right now than it was for Peter to get off; more important for Stiles' body to learn how it felt to be regularly taken. If it came down to it, Peter had pills he could take, but he was hoping that could be avoided.  
  
He weighed the option of giving Stiles some water now or waiting, then erred on the side of waiting. Maybe after the next fuck, or the fuck after that. Peter had quite a few quick sessions planned, all the better to disorient Stiles' sense of time. They were working within narrow parameters, after all. Peter had to make every hour count.  
  
Peter reached between Stiles' spread legs and rubbed his fingers along Stiles' closed vagina. There was more give to the flesh now than there had been even twenty minutes ago. Omega bodies responded to being fucked; it didn't matter which hole. If Peter could trust Stiles' mouth, he'd be working it too. He ran his fingertips down the seam of Stiles' vagina and watched, fascinated, at the light shiver that built in Stiles' thighs. So, the sensitivity had kicked in. Another good sign.  
  
Peter pulled his hand away and patted Stiles' ass, proprietary. "That was good, sweetheart," he said, taking care to imbue his voice with approval and warmth. Stiles moaned, guttural. It sounded heartbreaking. Peter smiled. "You've made me very happy." The noise Stiles made at _that_ defied category. "I'll be back when I feel like using you some more. Be good."  
  
This time, Stiles slid more quickly into hysteria, but then found the rut-rhythm breathing and settled into it. Peter kept an ear on the baby monitor as he moved around the kitchen, prepping the high calorie snacks they would be needing before the week was out. His body reacted to Stiles' breathing rhythm and he had to ruthlessly repress the urge to go back and _take._ But he'd had decades to master his impulses, and thinking ahead – anticipating – was enough to stave off the worst of his instincts.  
  
He nursed a water bottle while answering his email, ears still tuned to the baby monitor. Stiles' rhythmic breathing wasn't constant. He occasionally broke back into hitched whimpers and distressed sobs, but they always went back into rut-rhythm. Peter mused over the pattern, smiling to himself as he replied to Marin's oblique email in equally oblique terms. She hadn't loved giving up Stiles, but Peter had helped her populate too many of Eichen's cells; she owed him too many favours to deny him this. It had apparently taken quite a few subtle pressure tactics for Stiles to call her off as a service alpha option.  
  
He was lucky it had come down to Marin as his main competition. Satomi was unassailable. Ennis, Peter could have paid off, but that would leave a paper trail. But Marin could be convinced at the price of quid pro quo, and without investing too much time or effort, Peter had his omega.   
  
He went to fuck Stiles again after he sent the email off. This time, Stiles cry-moaned non-stop. Peter couldn't help himself. He buried himself to the hilt and held still, filling Stiles up, then fondly petted Stiles' hair, stroking it, rubbing at Stiles' head. "Shhh, sweetheart. Good boy. Good baby. Shh. I'm here. Your alpha's here." It only made Stiles cry yet more jaggedly, his whole body spasming around Peter's dick. Peter fisted one hand in Stiles' hair and resumed his thrusts, going deep and slow and measured. He shushed Stiles non-stop. His orgasm snuck up on him, and he came deep inside of Stiles for the first time as Stiles wept on his dick.  
  
This time, after replacing the plug, Peter covered Stiles with a light blanket and took a moment to pet Stiles' hair some more. "That was very good, sweetheart," Peter praised him. "I love being inside of you. You feel so good around me. You're doing really well." He didn't force Stiles to look at him – that had been important for the first time, but otherwise didn't matter much – just let Stiles absorb his touch and scent until they both became synonymous with praise and comfort. Stiles probably even knew what Peter was doing. He was a smart boy. That wouldn't stop it from working. Bonding was a hell of a drug.  
  
This time during Peter's recovery break, he called the Sheriff to let him know Stiles had made it to his place safely and was sleeping off an intense initial session. It was kind of true. The Sheriff's distaste and unease for Peter came across loud and clear, but so did his discomfort with the whole situation. It was blazingly clear to Peter where Stiles had gotten at least some of his dysphoria. Male omegas were a vanishingly small statistic, and those with beta parents even smaller. An alpha-led family would have cherished Stiles and, at the very least, made him well prepared for heat onset. Peter sneered at his phone. Then he pasted on a smile, so that it could be heard, and told the Sheriff that he didn't think it would be a good idea for Stiles to contact him at all. "He needs to be focused if we want this to work," Peter said with his best expert alpha voice.  
  
It wasn't as easy as that to convince the Sheriff, of course. But it wasn't too much more difficult.  
  
Peter had orgasmed twice today, which put his refractory period... hmm. Well, Stiles was putting out pheromones that could get a dead man erect. Peter drank another water bottle, emptied his bladder, and did a few quick yet energetic stretches to get his blood moving. Then he went to use Stiles some more. He'd been slightly worried about getting erect after all, but as he'd suspected, Stiles' scent more than did the trick.  
  
This time, Stiles was almost relaxed – less tension in his shoulders, more give in his hips. He settled into rut-rhythm breathing almost right away and didn't slip out of it the entire time. Peter's previous orgasms helped him draw the session out, really put Stiles through his paces. He felt inexpressibly fond of Stiles, of how well Stiles was fitting into the plan Peter had laid out for him.   
  
Peter liked fucking omegas. Just about anyone with a libido and the ability to feel sexual attraction liked fucking omegas. They felt so good, they smelled so nice. When Peter met Stiles the first time, it had been partially the challenge of getting to the Sheriff's young omega son that had drawn Peter in – but also Stiles' sharp inquisitive eyes, his constellation of moles. He was appealing in every way and Peter wanted him. Peter was still deciding if he wanted to _keep_ him.   
  
He pulled out before coming, and put the plug back inside of Stiles. He stroked between Stiles' legs, rubbing Stiles' vagina. It was definitely feeling plusher. Peter touched the seam, then scratched along it lightly, and watched with fascination as Stiles' closed vagina twitched. Peter rubbed along Stiles' seam again and again and each time, saw visible twitches. It was something profoundly new. Peter went to his knees so that his face was level and blew a light breath across Stiles' skin. Stiles' body jolted in its bounds like he'd been electrocuted. Peter grinned. He leaned forward, breathing hotly once more against Stiles' cunt. Stiles smelled so fucking sweet here, Peter's scent mingling, marking Stiles as his. Stiles' own scent was like honey, thick, condensed sugar. Peter leaned in closer. He licked, and Stiles _mewled_. A sound he'd never made before, a shocked noise of startled and helpless erotic pleasure. Peter licked again, and again, broad strokes all along the seam of Stiles' vagina. It was too soon and Stiles wasn't opening enough yet for any of his slick to come out, but Peter could smell it. He could smell Stiles' wetness, trapped behind its seal.  
  
Peter had to stop himself before he got truly carried away. He stood by Stiles' head and petted his hair until Stiles calmed, praising him with sweet nothings in a low soothing voice. Stiles seemed to default to the rut-rhythm for breathing now, which didn't help with Peter's instincts; but he liked the overall effect. It made Stiles seem innocently wanton. Once they were both calmer, Peter finally bent down to look Stiles in the face. Stiles' eyes were glazed and slightly swollen from the tears. His face was a mess. His mouth was stretched obscenely wide around the ball gag. Possessiveness gripped Peter with unexpected strength. Stiles felt like _his_. His creature. His omega.   
  
Ah, he'd forgotten, how bonding worked in both directions. Peter smiled thinly to himself, and kept his hands on Stiles' face gentle.  
  
Peter took the gag off and massaged Stiles' jaw, watched closely as Stiles blinked and then licked his dry lips, seemed unsure of how to use his tongue. "If you say a single word, the gag goes back in," Peter told him calmly. "If you're a good boy, you get water. Are you going to be good, Stiles?"  
  
Stiles' eyes flicked to Peter warily. He tilted his chin down slightly in assent.   
  
Peter got the bowl and water bottle off the bench. He emptied the water bottle into the bowl and then held it under Stiles' face for him to lap at. Stiles gave him an outraged look. "Are you fucking kidding –"  
  
Peter set the bowl aside quickly, almost violently. He grabbed the gag and shoved it back in, firmly holding Stiles' weakly struggling head in place as he did up the restraint. Stiles made choked screaming sounds, defying as much as he was able. Peter petted Stiles' hair, waiting him out. He spoke over Stiles' noises. "I warned you, sweetheart. Good boys get water. Aren't you getting thirsty? Be a good boy next time. You don't want to know what bad boys get." Stiles' muffled shouts only got louder, angrier. His eyes snapped hot rage. Peter smiled. There was his boy.  
  
He didn't wait for Stiles to wear himself out and calm down. Giving Stiles an audience for this tantrum was counter-productive. Peter just left, instead.  
  
Stiles was still angry for the next session, and the one after that, but in between his breathing went from sobbing to measured. Peter had a good idea of what was going on, now. Stiles was fighting the trauma bonding. He was fighting it hard, but it had already begun and there was no pulling it back. It was cute how hard he tried, though.  
  
The next time, Stiles faked complicity long enough to drink half a bowl of water, though the shamed flush high on his cheeks betrayed him. Because he was at least pretending to be good, Peter indulged him and didn't force the gag back in right away. It amused him to listen to Stiles muttering to himself, believing he was unheard, for the break between sessions.   
  
Peter listened to his omega while composing an email to Keppler's office, laying the groundwork. _Dear Dr. Keppler, the Stilinski family hired me as their service alpha. I am currently working with Stiles to be more comfortable with his omega physiology, and am walking him through intensive meditation and breathing exercises. However, he is giving off increased heat markers as we progress. I'd like some confirmation on his bloodwork. I believe he may be going into heat sooner than your previous communication led me to believe. Please advise._  
  
It was past her weekend office hours, so it was unlikely she'd catch this email before Monday – she never worked Sunday. Just to be safe, Peter went into Keppler's email account (also laughably easy to access) and sorted his newly sent email into the spam filter.  
  
The next session wasn't for fucking, alas, but maintenance. Peter gave Stiles some more water, which was lapped at sulkily, and then an opened individual-size container of unsweetened applesauce. It was amusing to watch Stiles' visible hesitance and grudging capitulation, titillating to see the way Stile had to use his jaw and tongue to eat out of the cup Peter held steady for him. Peter spent the entire time petting Stiles' head with his free hand. "Would you like some more?" Peter asked solicitously.  
  
He saw the instant Stiles wanted to say, _Screw you_ , and also saw the struggle of choking it back. "No, thank you," Stiles managed to rasp instead, sharply polite.  
  
Peter readied a basin of warm water and soft cloth, then gently cleaned Stiles' face. It was a pity to wash away the tear tracks, but there'd be more. Stiles closed his eyes for the duration. After, Peter gave a quick sponge bath to the rest of Stiles to get off the worst of the stress and fear sweat. It was intriguing to see how Stiles relaxed into the physical ministration of care. He seemed skin-hungry for it. Peter stroked along Stiles' side soothingly. "Good omega," he murmured, and delighted at the reflexive tensing, the palpable outrage.   
  
Before he left, he got out the bedpan. He held it in front of Stiles' face, so that Stiles could register what it was. "Now, sweetheart, do you need to use this? It's the only bathroom break you'll get."  
  
This, apparently, was the point of 'too far'. "Fuck you! Fuck you, you sick fuck!"   
  
Peter smiled thinly. "All right," he said over Stiles' screaming invectives. "I'll take that as a no." And he wrestled the ball gag back in and left.  
  
Stiles made angry screaming stifled noises for the next fifteen minutes straight, then seemed to tucker himself out and fell back, reflexively, into the rut-rhythm of breathing. Peter was enjoying himself. He drank some more water and ate a light dinner. Then he set his phone to ring an alarm in two minutes and went back for another session.   
  
He was leisurely fucking Stiles when the alarm sounded and he quickly turned it off and spoke into his phone, as if he'd just received a call. "Ah, Sheriff," he said, and delighted in the rigid tension of Stiles' back as he stiffened, in the tightening of Stiles' hole around him as Stiles reacted. "No, I'm not too busy. Stiles? He's worn out, poor thing. I could wake him for you...." He paused, as if listening. This charade would probably not have convinced a well-rested Stiles who _hadn't_ been jerked around all day. But Stiles was weakened and susceptible now, and of course Peter would use those facts to his advantage. "Listen, Sheriff, like I said before... we're making good progress, but I think Stiles would really benefit from an extra few days with me." Stiles stiffened further, and made choked protesting noises – trying to force the volume louder. Trying to scream. It didn't work. Peter _mmhmm_ 'd a few times. "Of course, call Dr. Keppler tomorrow. We can do a conference call if you like. Mmmhmm. Yes, that's right. Okay. All right, have a good night."    
  
Stiles was still screaming, still struggling as much as he was able, as Peter set his phone down. Peter pushed inside of him as far as he could go and then stroked Stiles' back gently, possessively. "Good news, sweetheart. Looks like you're with me for the week." He let Stiles react to that, let himself _feel_ Stiles' reaction, and then went back to fucking Stiles through his hysterics.   
  
Peter reached below Stiles to find his poor neglected little cock and stroked it a few times. Aside from the very first fuck, Peter hadn't touched it; Stiles obviously couldn't have touched it, either. It was already half hard, likely due to the stimulation of Stiles' hole, and it went fully erect gratifyingly fast. It also got wet, slickness dribbling out of the cockhead. Peter pinched it, and Stiles' hips minutely jerked. It looked like Stiles _would_ be able to squirt out of his dick, eventually, with some more training. How sweet. Peter stroked Stiles to his first orgasm of the day, alternating between paying attention to Stiles' dick and Stiles' cunt, running his knuckles along Stiles' seam, feeling the increasing plushness of Stiles' lips. Stiles wept as he came, and that was its own sweetness. It almost brought Peter over the edge himself, but he pulled back.   
  
Stiles got the plug back, and the light blanket from earlier again as well. Peter fitted a black satin mask over Stiles' eyes and stood by Stiles' head, petting his hair, murmuring softly to him, letting Stiles inhale his scent. "It's been a long day," Peter soothed. "Go to sleep, sweetheart. I'll be here when you wake up. Shh, shh. It'll be okay. Your alpha is here. Your alpha has you."  
  
Stiles went gradually slack against the breeding bench, relaxing against it, as he fell asleep. It didn't even take very long. Poor kid really was exhausted, and no wonder. Peter left him with one last fond hair stroke.   
  
He set his alarm for three and a half hours and kept the baby monitor close to him as he settled on his sofa to nap. Stiles' time sense must be fully distorted by now, confused by the structure Peter had set up of session-break, session-break; and Peter intended to keep manipulating it until Stiles truly believed he'd been with Peter for at least four days. It unfortunately meant a rigorous schedule for Peter himself with little time to recover, meaning he'd have to pace himself carefully. It was an exquisite challenge.   
  
Peter couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks again to Mal for all his help and encouragement <3! Next time we go back to Stiles' POV.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles sat at the kitchen table. There was sunlight coming in. It was familiar here; he was home. His dad sat opposite him, drinking coffee. Black coffee. It was morning and Stiles was clean and at home and wearing clothes.  
  
His dad's eyes crinkled at Stiles over the rim of his mug. "Kiddo? Where'd you go?"  
  
Stiles looked down. He had a plate of food, eggs and toast. He wasn't hungry, but he should eat. He'd lost a few pounds. Dr. Keppler said it was to be expected, coming out of heat, even though Peter had -  
  
("Ah, looks like Mr. Hale did his best to keep your caloric intake high. This could have been a lot worse – you were lucky to have an experienced service alpha monitor you through your first heat." Dr. Keppler smiled.)  
  
Stiles picked up his toast and began to chew.  
  
***  
  
Going back to school felt weird. He'd only been out of it for a week, but it felt like months. Everyone knew why he'd been gone. He felt them staring, felt the press of their whispers. He slept-walked through classes until lunch period.  
  
Scott and Cora joined him, looking unwillingly curious. They looked him over. They tried to be covert about it, but they were so bad that it was almost a joke. Scott awkwardly tried to start a conversation, but it fizzled and in its place Cora leaned forward, smirking.  
  
"What the hell did you do to Uncle Peter, Stilinski? He can't stop smiling. It's gross."  
  
Stiles blinked at her emptily. "Uh, I don't know," he said. "I honestly... the whole last week is kind of a total blank. He seemed cool, though."   
  
(Musk, scent, overwhelming presence, overwhelming pressure. Darkness. No sound. No light, no air, no breath.)  
  
(In the morning. The last morning. In the shower. Peter, clothed, holding the detachable showerhead, Stiles, naked, being washed. A large soft towel. Peter, smiling, blue eyes light. Leaning forward. Chaste kiss to Stiles' cheek.)  
  
"How can you not remember the entire week? It was your –" Scott glanced side to side, furtive, and dropped his voice lower. "It was your first heat."  
  
Stiles stifled the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, I'm aware. My doctor said it's not unusual. Especially not for omegas with my, uh, condition." He'd never told them exactly _why_ he'd needed a service alpha to begin with, and he wasn't about to now. Dr. Keppler had told him he'd come out remarkably healthy and undamaged from a closed first heat. She'd been impressed, heaping praise on Peter.  
  
Stiles barely even remembered his post-heat physical. Dr. Keppler and his dad had come to Peter's house. She'd taken Stiles into the guestroom and looked him over with her kit, taking his blood pressure, examining his pupil response, taking saliva and blood samples. Stiles was still hazy, but he remembered feeling vaguely worried about Peter and his dad alone in the living room. He took his clothes off for Dr. Keppler to examine him. He had minimal bruising, no cuts. No anal tearing. He'd used heat aids, he knew that much. Peter had shown them to him, eager to help Stiles fill the holes in his memory. Some of them.... looked familiar.   
  
Dr. Keppler looked at Stiles' cunt and made slight, likely unintentional, disappointed sounds that the seam remained intact. She palpated Stiles' mound and smiled. "Well, it would have been for the best for you to open while in heat, but the softness here is a very promising sign," she'd said.   
  
Stiles had held himself rigid to keep from shuddering. It felt profoundly wrong to have someone who wasn't Peter so close to him, so intimate with him. He wanted Peter in the room. He wanted, wanted his alpha.  
  
To Scott and Cora, Stiles said, offhand like it wasn't a big deal, "I guess we had a temporary bond or whatever. So that's probably it."  
  
He didn't remember how he got through the rest of the day, or how he got home after. He didn't remember much until he was up in his room. The duffel bag he'd taken with him to Peter's was by his bed. Peter had packed it for him and handed it over right as Stiles was leaving with his dad two days ago. Stiles opened it now.   
  
(The smell, thick and cloying, musty, dirty, wrong. Sweat and semen and salt. Darkness. He couldn't move. Something kept him still. He was held in a pose, powerless.)  
  
( _Sweetheart,_ murmured in his ear.)  
  
Stiles' pillow was folded double and squashed down. It quickly expanded once Stiles pulled it out, but it smelled rank, like Stiles had used it between his legs for the entire heat. He flushed. Set it aside. Beneath the pillow were Stiles' folded sweats, his t-shirts, and a navy throw blanket, extra soft, made from some kind of microfiber. It wasn't something Stiles had brought with him, so it must have been Peter's. Stiles unfolded it. The scent that rose up was comforting, warm. He pulled it over his lap. Two small oblong objects jostled free, and Stiles picked them up, then stared. They were – one was, unmistakeably, a black silicone butt plug. Christ. The other was a small curved bright pink vibrator. Jesus Christ. Stiles dropped them both back into the duffel, furiously blushing.  
  
His ass still felt kind of, oddly, open. He'd been ignoring it all of today and all of yesterday, but staring at the plug brought the sensation into stark relief. He squirmed. He was alone at home. He should be starting dinner. But instead he was kicking off his jeans and reaching into his boxers, cupping his dick, reaching down to his hole. One finger went in dry and dragged against his rim. He shuddered and pulled it out. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel like he should –   
  
( _This hole is for your alpha. Just for me, sweetheart. Good boy. You're doing so well._ )  
  
He pulled his pants back on and washed his hands and went down to cook.  
  
***  
  
Late at night he couldn't sleep, tossing and turning in bed. His dad had come home to eat but then had to leave again almost immediately, exhaustion lining his face. Stiles hated it. He hated his dad's overwork and he hated being alone, but what could he say? They needed money. Omega children were expensive. Stiles' dad never said it outright, but Stiles grew up hearing it in whispers from his classmates' parents and even from his teachers. The extra doctor visits, the extra medication, the Omega Wellness and heat facility fees – it all added up.  
  
Too restless to sleep and too unwillingly preoccupied with the heat aids Peter had packed for him, Stiles finally sat up and clicked on his bedside lamp. He reached over for his charging phone and unlocked it, found Peter's contact and texted, **Why did you give me those things?**   
  
He wasn't expecting an instant reply since Peter was probably asleep, but he got one. **Hello Stiles. What things?**  
  
**You know,** Stiles accused. **They were in the blanket.**  
  
His phone buzzed with an incoming call. He hesitated to answer, unsure if – Peter's voice, in his ear. Unsure if he wanted that. The thought made him itch, made his stomach roil. But it was stupid, he was the one who had started this, the one who texted first. It was just nerves. He hadn't talked to Peter since they'd said goodbye. Nerves were normal. He hadn't even seen Peter when he and his dad had gone back the other day to pick up his Jeep. This was stupid. He accepted the call, and –   
  
Later, he'd _know_ the contents of their conversation, but he wouldn't be able to repeat it word for word. He'd know they'd talked. He'd know Peter had said... something. Something?   
  
(Vibrating pressure pressed against his closed cunt, rocking at the top of him. _Right over your clit._ Running down his seam. _Imagine what this will feel like when you open, sweetheart._ Too much, too much, too much. He couldn't breathe, it was too much.)  
  
Peter told him it was normal to feel adrift after a temporary bond broke, for coldness to hit him keenly. Peter told him to wrap himself up in a blanket, like a burrito, and to cover his face so he couldn't hear or see anything, and to practice his omega breathing exercises.   
  
This, Stiles would remember. "Let me hear you do it, sweetheart." And Stiles would breathe for his alpha, in the proper count, and let himself be praised as he drifted deeper into the calm of his alpha's voice.   
  
***  
  
Stiles moved through the days oddly, in a haze. He could be present one moment and drifting the next. He was aware that he was suffering, but it was nameless and indistinct. His dad knew it too. They scheduled appointments with an omega specialist. The specialist's office was two towns over and she was expensive. Stiles wasn't supposed to know what she cost, but he looked it up anyway and felt the guilt squirm deeper inside, turning like a worm in dirt.  
  
Dr. Edwards took him through a brisk physical, sent him for yet more blood draws and saliva swabs, and then quizzed him about his daily life, his social life, and the amount of physical contact he had with others on an average basis. Her frown deepened with each answer. She briefly confirmed with Stiles and his dad the factual details of his recent heat – yes, he'd spent it with a service alpha with whom he'd formed a temporary bond, yes, he'd gone into it closed and exited it still closed, and yes, it had lasted around six days that Stiles still could not remember.  
  
"Around six days?" Dr. Edwards raised a finely groomed eyebrow. She was middle-aged and slight, efficient and professional. She reminded Stiles of a bird, with her bright inquisitive eyes and chirpily fast way of speaking, with some sort of European accent.  
  
"I was there for maybe a day or two before the heat happened," Stiles explained. "For a session to help me, uh, open. I don't remember those days either."  
  
Dr. Edwards nodded like that was expected. She tapped Stiles' closed file with a manicured finger. Her nail polish was blush white. "So, I've sent your samples for a detailed panel, but I have your past results here as well and based off of those, and from what you've told me today, I'm fairly confident that what is going on here is not _exactly_ what Dr. Keppler presented to you earlier. The issue is not so much that Stiles' body is not developing on pace with his hormones, but that his hormones have been overactive. We see this in cases where an omega is lacking in regular physical contact and becomes, hmm, in layman's terms, touch-starved. Humans are social animals and we require regular touch to maintain health, and this need is exaggerated in the omega population. Your system tried to, hmm, well, for lack of better terms, it tried to get you what you needed by luring a mate to you through release of heat pheromones. We are seeing this at increasing rates in recent years among young omegas, some as young as thirteen, which as you can see, is not ideal."  
  
Stiles' dad was gray. "You're saying this all happened because I didn't hug him enough? This was my fault?"  
  
Dr. Edwards clicked her tongue dismissively. "This is not a question of fault, but of remedy. Yes, more hugs would have helped, but, hmm. It is entirely likely this would always have happened. One parent is, forgive me, but, omegas require quite a great deal of physical contact and assurance. One parent might not suffice. _Two_ parents might not suffice. Historically, omegas are at the heart of social groups and enjoy quite a deal of, hmm, cuddling. From what Stiles has reported, he does not spend his time with very many peers, and what time he does spend does not involve touch."  
  
"So this is my fault," Stiles said bleakly.  
  
This time, Dr. Edwards' tongue click was even more strident. "Self-pity is not remedy," she chided. "This service alpha you employed. The temporary bond he managed to establish must have been remarkably strong to sustain you through a closed heat, and he established it very quickly if what you say regarding the timeline is correct. In fact, I am unconvinced that the temporary bond broke post-heat. Have you been in contact?"  
  
"No," Stiles' dad said at once.   
  
Dr. Edwards stared at Stiles, who shifted in his seat, and admitted, "Yes."  
  
His dad turned to look at him.   
  
"Just phone calls," Stiles clarified. "I... I don't know, he said I could call him if I needed anything, and... I had some questions. So I called him, and, I've talked to him a few times. But it's nothing bad. It's just, you know, he's my friend's uncle, it's..." he stared at his dad, then at Dr. Edwards, then at his own hands, and finished mumbling, "It's nothing bad."  
  
His dad was frowning. But Dr. Edwards didn't seem displeased. "Hmm, and after these phone calls, did you feel better or worse?"  
  
"Better," Stiles admitted.  
  
"Ah. Yes, well, it is very likely there is still a bond between the two of you. Your post-heat bloodwork did not show a decrease in bonding hormones. We will see what results come from your most recent samples. However, for immediate alleviation of your current distress symptoms, I recommend returning to your service alpha for support sessions. Your system sent you into heat to gain a mate and fulfill this primary need. You managed to, hmm, trick your system while in heat, but now you are still experiencing unmet needs. Physical contact with a bondmate, even a temporary bondmate, does wonders for an omega's health." Dr. Edwards smiled beatifically, satisfied that she could deliver a relatively simple diagnosis and treatment plan.  
  
Stiles' dad's frown only deepened. He didn't like Peter. He would probably _never_ like Peter. "What about a different alpha?" he asked abruptly. "We were forced into Peter last time. What about – someone, anyone else?"  
  
Dr. Edwards looked from Stiles to his dad, concerned. "Was he unsatisfactory? Well – you could certainly try a different alpha, but if they do in fact still retain their bond, it will not go well."  
  
"Then I want to talk medication," Stiles' dad said. "What can you prescribe?"  
  
Now, Dr. Edwards went stony. "For a prescription, you must wait for Stiles' test results. And perhaps you must go to a different doctor altogether. It is not my current belief that medication would serve Stiles' best interests."  
  
Stiles' dad clenched his jaw. Stiles cleared his throat. "Okay," he said. "Thank you. Uh, thanks a lot."  
  
"Of course," Dr. Edwards said. From there they had to schedule a follow-up appointment and then they made their escape. Stiles' dad fumed the whole way home.  
  
***  
  
Stiles never remembered his dreams, but he knew they weren't restful. He woke up exhausted.   
  
His days were rough, too. So often he had to slip into his breathing exercises to maintain calm.  
  
He lost minutes, sometimes hours. He learned to laugh it off. If he laughed about it first, then so would everyone else and it would just be a joke. He became that forgetful omega cliche. People would reference something he said or did, and he'd learn to just go along with it, even if he didn't have the corresponding memory.  
  
His dad didn't want to hire Peter as his service alpha. His dad didn't want Stiles talking to Peter, either, and erased Peter's contact information from Stiles' phone. He said, evenly, that he'd be checking and if there was any more communication he'd be filing a restraining order on Stiles' behalf. It hurt Stiles, ached deeply in his chest, and he almost began to cry. His dad wasn't cruel, though; he hugged Stiles and held him for hours.  
  
"I know he helped us before," Stiles' dad said. "But we don't need him. Okay, Stiles?"  
  
(Relief. Betrayal. Relief, betrayal. Twining so deep and sharp, looping and roping around him.)  
  
Cora made terrible grossed-out faces when she passed notes between Stiles and Peter. She did it for two days and then, with relief, flung a new phone at Stiles one day before school. "Here, loser, now I can stop being your messenger pigeon."  
  
On the phone at night, alone, his dad on graveyards – Peter in his ear, Peter in his head.   
  
( _Breathe for me, sweetheart_. His hole belonged to his alpha, but he could fill it up to keep from being too lonely. _You have such a cute little cock. Let's see how long you can tease it before it squirts. Use the vibe, baby. Good boy. Good omega._ He stroked down his seam, hips bucking.)  
  
They never said anything wrong or illicit. Peter just wanted to know what Stiles did with his day. Peter was just interested in him.  
  
(The terrible desolating knowledge that he was just a hole to fuck, just a thing for his alpha to use. If only he could curl up, if only he could comfort himself. But he couldn't move. He couldn't fight. The only thing he could do was accept it.)  
  
After a few weeks, his dad went back to working most of the time instead of trying to be home during the afternoons for Stiles to cuddle. Stiles didn't blame him. He knew – he knew he was an expensive kid, that his dad had to work hard to support him, and he knew his dad wasn't really comfortable with all the hugging. That it was just guilt and stubbornness that drove him; that it looked like Stiles was improving and his dad didn't need to try so hard anymore. Stiles knew all of that but it still hurt anyway.  
  
**So come over,** Peter texted.   
  
**I can't afford a service alpha on my own,** Stiles replied.  
  
**That's not what we are anymore,** Peter said. **Come over.**  
**  
***  
  
** The memory blanks widened and deepened. Stiles lost afternoons, evenings. Whole weekends. School was a struggle.  
  
He had bruises in odd places. He ached, sometimes. Deep in his hips. Deep in his jaw. But he didn't know why. Sometimes he felt anxiety rise up and press sharply on him, like an actual knife stabbing through his chest. He always called Peter when that happened, unless he was already with Peter. Peter would haul him close and hug him tight, and stroke his hair, and call him good.  
  
(His alpha spreading him. His alpha between his legs. His alpha's mouth on his cunt. His alpha owning him, holding him down, keeping him safe.)  
  
He compensated with post-it notes everywhere at home, in his textbooks and notebooks, on his computer, on the kitchen cabinets – perpetual reminders of chores to be done, of homework, of random thought tangents he didn't want to lose. He was afraid of the memory lapses. He was afraid of what they might mean. His mom.... He didn't want his dad to know.  
  
He hid so many things from his dad.  
  
He felt stupid, young, and afraid.   
  
He felt like he was losing his mind.  
  
***  
  
They never did go for the scheduled follow-up with Dr. Edwards. Stiles knew his dad talked with her over the phone and that they argued. But that was all.  
  
***  
  
He went with Scott to drop off food for Scott's mom at the hospital.   
  
He saw a metal bedpan and went into hysterics.  
  
***  
  
Instead of home, Stiles went to his alpha. Peter met him at his Jeep and walked with him through the woods, unselfconsciously holding Stiles' hand, giving him the touch he craved. He didn't ask questions or make Stiles talk. The walk was peaceful.  
  
Something about it.... Something reminded him. Of something he'd forgotten. The wind through the trees' leaves. The rustling underfoot. The closeness of Peter's body, the warmth and the scent. It was comforting but it was also.  
  
It was also –   
  
"Shh," Peter hummed. He turned his head slightly to Stiles and smiled. "Do your breathing, sweetheart."  
  
At Peter's house, in Peter's bedroom, where they'd spent Stiles' heat. Peter wrapped Stiles up in his duvet, snug, so he couldn't move his arms or his legs. There was a TV in the room and they watched it still in comfortable quiet. Gradually, Stiles drifted, relaxing into sleep.  
  
He wasn't quite asleep when Peter unwrapped him and undressed him and fingered his asshole open and fucked him gently, thoroughly. Stiles knew Peter was doing something wrong, but he was so tired and it felt so good. It could just be a dream. An uncomplicated dream. That was.... It was just a dream. He just had to relax and accept it, how his alpha used him.  
  
He woke up at home. Or – he didn't remember how he got home, but he was awake when he began tracking things again, so –   
  
Scott had left increasingly upset voicemails on Stiles' other phone. He said Stiles was worrying him. He wanted to know where Stiles had gone. He said he couldn't keep his promise about not telling the Sheriff anything, not if things kept getting worse.   
  
Stiles deleted the messages. He texted Scott that he was home and okay. He didn't pick up when Scott called. He texted that he was tired and just wanted to go to bed.   
  
And he did go to bed, but not to sleep. He laid on his covers and stared at the ceiling and thought about what had happened.   
  
Peter. Peter had fucked him. It wasn't just a dream. It happened; it was real. Stiles was underage and Peter was an adult. It was wrong. Peter probably thought Stiles had been asleep, which was a whole separate kind of wrong.   
  
Tears prickled out of his eyes and dragged across his face, dripping along his cheekbones to his ears.  
  
**Was this the first time you fucked me?** he texted through bleary eyes.   
  
The phone Peter gave him rang, but he didn't pick up. He couldn't listen to Peter right now.  
  
**Just tell me,** he sent.   
  
**I haven't touched you,** Peter said. **I would never betray your trust that way.  
  
** Stiles sobbed. **I was awake.** He sent, **You thought I was asleep, but I was awake.**  
  
**I don't know what you're talking about,** Peter said. **Please let me talk to you, sweetheart. Pick up the phone.**  
  
**I don't want to talk to you. I don't trust you right now.  
  
** There was a long pause. Then the dots indicating Peter was texting him. Then, **I'm on my way. We're going to talk this out, sweetheart. Just do your breathing for me and stay calm. I'll be right there.**  
  
Stiles dropped his phone and moaned, curling on his side, crying into his hands. He hated, _hated,_ how Peter's words had filled him with comfort and longing.  
  
***  
  
Peter came in through the kitchen door without knocking. Stiles was sitting at the table, waiting for him. The first thing Peter did was hug him. "Sweetheart, you had me so worried," Peter said, stroking up and down Stiles' back.   
  
Stiles didn't want it to work, but it did. He melted into Peter's hold. "I remember what you did," he muttered querulously, fretfully. "I know I've been forgetting things lately, but I remember what happened."  
  
"Shh," Peter hushed him. "I'm sorry, Stiles, I had no idea it was getting this bad. I shouldn't have let you leave on your own." He petted Stiles' hair, and Stiles melted some more.  
  
But he shook his head, and insisted, "No, it was real. I – you – I remember. I can still feel it."  
  
"Baby...." Peter sighed. "It was a hallucination. You've been getting them more and more lately. Remember? You recorded a message in case of emergencies. Here, let's sit down. I'll play it for you."  
  
And on Stiles' sofa, in his living room, with his alpha holding him, he listened to his own message. He didn't know when or how or why, but at some point he'd said, "I think it's getting worse. I'm starting to get really scared, but I don't know what to do. Peter helps me. He's my alpha. I trust him. He'd never hurt me. Please, whoever is listening to this, if it's possible, let me see Peter. He makes me feel safe." Stiles didn't recognize his own voice – it sounded scared. He shook his head. He looked at Peter. "I don't remember this," he whispered.   
  
Peter closed his eyes as if pained. He leaned forward and kissed Stiles on the forehead. "I know," he whispered back. "I know, sweetheart. But don't be afraid. I'm going to take care of you."  
  
***  
  
Stiles.... didn't remember much of what happened next. His dad came home at some point. Peter was still there. There was an argument.... His dad shook him. Peter intervened. His dad was angry, then concerned. There was.... They were at the hospital. Dr. Keppler was there. Then Dr. Edwards. And Marin Morrell was there. And Scott's mom, and Scott. But they weren't all there at the same time.... it stretched. Time stretched. Then snapped, seconds expanding briefly into an eternity, before speeding past him, days gone in a blink. Peter was always there. There were mutterings of a court case, a legal battle. Parental rights versus alpha rights. Stiles' blood was drawn again and again for different panels of tests processed at different labs. He was officially given the status of bonded to Peter. A platonic bond, because it couldn't be a sexual or mating one – there were dark whispers, but Stiles' vaginal seal was still intact, and those whispers faded to nothing. His dad was at his hospital bedside, stinking of alcohol, eyes red-rimmed, voice shaky. His dad apologized. His dad never realized.... his dad never knew how important some things were to an omega. His dad should have listened. Should have learned. His dad was so sorry.  
  
Peter took him home. To Peter's home.   
  
Peter took him to the dark room, with the things that made Stiles shiver in horror and need.  
  
His alpha carried him in, and then shut the door.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, yeah, so... that happened. One more chapter to go!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I lied, one more chapter after this. Shhh.

Sharp adrenaline and something very much like panic kept Peter on edge all through the emergency hearings. He was exceedingly aware that all it would take was a lightning bolt of lucidity to strike Stiles and get Peter thrown in jail, which was why Peter camped out as much as possible in Stiles' hospital room. The two days that both Peter and Noah Stilinski were barred from it pending the judge's decision were among the tensest of Peter's life.   
  
In the end, it was his alpha-ness – and the Sheriff's lack thereof – that tipped the scales. Oh, no one would admit it. But the common image _was_ of alpha and omega. The common instinct was to preserve that ancient dichotomy – of soft and hard, of prey and protector. Or predator, as the case may be.   
  
Marin gave him a coolly disbelieving look that he'd managed to pull it off and he returned it with a smirk. She'd been one of the experts involved in the determination. As far as Peter knew, she hadn't provided either saving or damning evidence against him – just icy, objective fact. Peter read in her gaze that she thought him lucky, not skilled; and probably she was right. But it was also that Peter had moved _fast_ , and decisively, and for the kill. The metaphorical kill. Admittedly, he'd landed himself in the vulnerable position to begin with, playing with fire and risking the burn.  
  
He'd thought the Sheriff would allow the support sessions. He'd thought he could continue toying with Stiles while risking nothing. But the Sheriff was more stubborn than anticipated – or more stupid, or perhaps ultimately more intuitive given the truth of what Peter had done to his son; it was hard to tell – and refused the omega expert's advice. This was another strike against him when it came to custody, but at the time, it had irked Peter. He'd felt sparks of deep annoyance, the beginnings of outrage, at the thought of his delicately crafted plot ruined out of the gate.   
  
So Peter took stupid risks and maintained contact with Stiles. So Peter balanced on the edge of consequence. It didn't matter; in the end, he had his prize.   
  
Stiles was legally his, now. The Sheriff's defeat had been – sublime. The salt tang of his tears, the twist of his face, the way he clung to Stiles' lax fingers at their goodbye. Stiles was still largely unresponsive. Watching the Sheriff appeal to him, try to coax a reaction, was breathtaking.   
  
"We'll set up visitation as soon as Stiles is feeling better," Peter murmured in assurance. Inwardly, he gloated. Noah Stilinski didn't look at him even to glare. He stared at his son, and then at his hands, and didn't look up as Peter took the boy and left.  
  
Another upside of finally, _finally,_ being an alpha with a bonded omega was that no one dared to intrude on his territory without explicit permission. It went against all the proper mannerisms of traditional alpha and omega led families, which meant that finally Peter was free from his sister and her family and their incessant unannounced drop-ins. Talia could _hint_ that she'd like to visit, but she couldn't impose herself – not when Peter had an omega to guard. It would be improper.   
  
Stiles was docile, for the most part. Once Peter had him home, settled back in the cradle of his breeding bench, there was a brief break in the daze. Stiles came back to himself, awareness flickering in his eyes. He looked around the room. He couldn't move his head with how fully he was bound, but his eyes could flutter in wild panic. Peter made sure to stand in front of him, stroking Stiles' cheeks and forehead soothingly while shushing him. "This is where you belong," Peter reminded him, nodding to Stiles to signal the rightness of it. "Do your breathing. Settle down. You're here, with me. I have you. I'm here."  
  
The last time, he'd broken Stiles to the bench over the course of two and a half days. By the end, Stiles had been incoherent, nearly catatonic, and so, so attuned to Peter's touch. But that was an animal breaking, a deep manipulation of omega traits and instincts. Peter had capped it by triggering Stiles' heat. This time, Peter took his time; rather than condense the terror of a week into two days, he wallowed in each moment and hour, making sure Stiles was acutely aware at every stage.   
  
He fixated on Stiles, drinking in each micro reaction to each stroke and praise. It couldn't be sex, this time. It had to be tenderness and devotion, and Stiles made helpless before it. Peter was already there in Stiles' reflexes. Their bond ensured it. But he had to be there in Stiles' mind and heart, too. The first consideration, the only consideration. He petted Stiles; he murmured softly to him. He gentled him. He was always there.  
  
***  
  
Peter kept expecting to get bored, after Stiles had broken and was fully his. The game was over and won. Peter had no use for domesticity. He expected to tire of his little bonded omega. His plan had always been to eventually pawn Stiles off on Morrell, who at least could make use of him in one of her specialized studies, or as an organic type of pacifier for the more feral of the alphas residing in Eichen's cells. Peter expected and Peter planned, but he hadn't anticipated _this_ : how the fixation would linger and deepen, the bond snaking further within him. Ah, but he should have known there was truth to all those folk tales. He'd always thought himself too unlike the others of his kind to be snared in such a way. Maybe he would have hated it, but Stiles made it sweet.   
  
Stiles seemed to have built a wall in his mind. On one side of the wall, Peter was his trusted guardian and friend whose approval Stiles was secretly desperate to gain. On the other side, Peter was his alpha and Stiles existed only to please him.   
  
Time passed pleasantly. Peter enrolled Stiles in online courses. Ostensibly this was easier than returning him to a curriculum that had far out-paced him during Stiles' breakdown and hospital stay; but really, it ensured Stiles never left the house. After the first two weeks, to keep things from looking _too_ odd, Peter brought Stiles to Talia's large homestead for family dinners. He didn't even have to manipulate events to keep Stiles close; the omega did that all on his own. Stiles' anxiety spiked if Peter was out of his sightline. His breathing only calmed when Peter was touching him.   
  
This had the added benefit of curtailing Talia's attempts to 'talk'. She meant well, but she meddled and it was boring.   
  
Cora chattered at Stiles, attempting to catch him up on all the things he'd missed – trying too hard to sound bright and lively. She faltered at Stiles' newfound frailty, his paleness, his clinginess. She frowned and looked at Peter, questioning. Peter shook his head at her and motioned his hand for later. He'd have to manage his niece. She knew too much for comfort, but for all her slyness and strength, she was naive. She could be brought around as long as Peter framed things to her the correct way.  
  
Sheriff Stilinski had applied for visits and Peter had denied him. Stilinski had gone through lawyers next, but Peter had held them off. He knew he was bleeding the Sheriff financially dry. He wondered what it would take. Would Stilinski mortgage the house? Peter idly thought about pushing it that far, and then relented. This was a month in and it was clear that Stiles flourished under Peter's care. His grades had picked up and his appetite returned. He was regaining lost muscle, lost fat. He looked soft and sweet and young, no longer sulky or defiant, no longer hallucinating or lost in a daze.   
  
Peter didn't leave them alone for the visit, of course. But he sat discreetly in the kitchen while father and son reunited in the living room. Peter took gloating joy in the knowledge that an hour before the Sheriff arrived, Peter'd had Stiles on his cock, writhing and crying for his alpha. Sitting on the very sofa the Sheriff sat on now. The knowledge was so enjoyable that every visit after, Peter made sure to recreate the experience.  
  
The bond didn't dissolve. That required time and a diminishing of care. Peter waited for it to break, sure that he wasn't the type that could sustain such a thing; yet it remained. Stiles was his and increasingly Peter was Stiles' in return. Stiles' skin and scent fascinated him. He spent hours stroking Stiles' sides and back, working Stiles into a mewling purr. He spent eternities between Stiles' spread legs, delicately licking at the honey seeping out from Stiles' barely-closed seam. The taste was.... Intoxicating, indescribable, sweet. So sweet.   
  
Peter brought in a separate omega specialist to prescribe the birth control. Omegas typically were not fertile until their fourth heats, at the earliest, but Peter didn't want to take any chances. He didn't have any leverage on Dr. Edwards, and he didn't want to risk Keppler's possible questions, so it was easier this way despite the added expense. Stiles took his bi-monthly shot docilely, sweetly. His head was turned away to avoid looking at the needle as it penetrated his skin. He'd hide his face against Peter's chest if Peter let him, whimpering like a small child. He had an acute fear of needles. He was so soft, so defenseless. Such a perfect prey.   
  
Stiles went into heat again three months into Peter's guardianship, two months before his sixteenth birthday. Peter was his bonded, and a service alpha, and had helped Stiles through heat once before. No one blinked twice at Peter keeping Stiles again rather than dropping him off at a heat facility, except for perhaps the Sheriff, and no one minded him.   
  
Stiles opened on the first day of his second heat. He'd been so close to opening for so long that he sobbed nonstop in relief as his cunt finally spread. They were in Peter's room, on the bed where they always slept together now unless Peter decided to bind Stiles to the bench. In the bed, in the blankets, against the pillows, with Peter stroking along Stiles' seam again, again, again. The edges of Peter's callused fingertips were just rough enough to catch along Stiles' opening seam. Their breaths came heavier, in tandem, Peter staring down into Stiles eyes as he stroked Stiles open – Stiles' mouth dropping, his eyes glazed wide, his chin tilting back. Peter caught Stiles' mouth in a kiss just as Peter's fingers succeeded in breaching him, Stiles' slick covering his palm and filling the air with heady omega heat. It was unbearably intimate, unspeakably tender. Peter felt such possession that he couldn't even speak, only growl.   
  
Peter ate out Stiles' over-sensitized cunt, ruthless, lapping at Stiles' newly exposed clit. Stiles twisted and screamed, voice turning raw, then gravelly. His eyes rolled back in his head at the first press of Peter's dick to his cunt, at the deep push in. Stiles went boneless, fully docile, helpless to stop his alpha from using him. It touched something primal in Peter, deeper than thought, deeper than calculation. Stiles' breathing went into that deep, drug-slow pattern. And Peter dove head-first into rut.   
  
This time, Peter would have a hard time remembering exactly all that happened. It wasn't his first rut with an omega in heat, but it felt more – _more_. It must have been the bond. There were brief but intense flashes of sensation, of scent and image – the swollen rim of Stiles' tight new cunt stretched obscenely wide around his knot – the helpless pulse and twitch of Stiles' cute little cock – Stiles' chin, his jaw, his neck, his forearm, his shoulder, Stiles' thighs spread open – Stiles' thighs friction-burned bright red. Omega slick and alpha rut mingling into a swampy mess of body odour and sex, relentlessly animalistic, crowding in Peter's nostrils. Stiles' whimpers, his wails. His guttering moans. How he'd tried to crawl away from Peter, but only tried once.  
  
Peter came back to himself three days deep, snugged tight to Stiles' back as his knot rocked inside of Stiles' asshole, his fingers slicking over Stiles' clit. Stiles was making his familiar moan-cries, but he quieted as Peter knocked his fingers up Stiles' cunt and gave Stiles something to clench around.   
  
"Sweet, tight omega," Peter muttered feverishly into Stiles' ear. He'd never felt this good before. He didn't know if it was Stiles or their bond or both. It didn't matter. This feeling.... so good, so right. Peter ground his hips against Stiles' ass and bit into Stiles' shoulder. He could _feel_ himself twitching inside of Stiles. Feel his orgasm spill inside of the boy. "Breed you up. Make you full."  
  
It was evident once Peter's knot had gone down that Stiles' heat had broken already, maybe as early as a day ago. He was uncomfortable. Not lost in the arousal haze of heat, but sore and embarrassed and – hmm, a little hurt, Peter diagnosed. Not physically, but emotionally. Stiles didn't always love to feel like he was just a hole, though he loved when Peter used him like one. It would take a few more intense sessions on the bench to get Stiles there. Perhaps a goal for before the next heat hit.   
  
Well. Peter soothed his omega, and praised him, and wondered aloud at how perfectly Stiles had been made for Peter's knot. There was some resistance, but eventually Stiles melted against him. It helped that he loved, _loved_ , Peter's tongue on his clit.   
  
The months ticked over and over. The seasons shifted. Something about Stiles brought Peter back into unanticipated rut right around Stiles' sixteenth birthday. He kept his head without Stiles' heat to intensify it, though it was occasionally a struggle; he brought Stiles to the bench and used him there, held open in position for a nonstop three days. Peter had unexplainable insistent urges to bind Stiles still and keep him close, unable to move, utterly compliant. By the end, Stiles wasn't responsive. He'd dropped his breathing into rut rhythm and seemed to have found a dissociative state – not even tracking when he emptied his bladder on the ground – absenting himself from his body and leaving it there for Peter to own. He ate nearly nothing and had to be coaxed to drink water, and his limbs were lax in Peter's grip when Peter took brief breaks to stretch and exercise him off of the bench.  
  
He came back after Peter unbound him, bathed him, and dressed him in comfortable clothes. He seemed slightly confused, and then seemed to have forgotten the last three days entirely. He asked for milkshakes and curly fries, pouting that it was his birthday – then corrected himself, _We didn't do anything for my birthday. Peter, please?_ It fascinated Peter. Stiles had made himself.... forget. But he still tracked the passage of time. How did it work? Peter wondered. He'd never had an omega this young for so long, never kept a trauma bond active so long or let it set so deep; he'd never watched as an omega rewired himself completely to stay even a little bit sane.  
  
Halfway through Stiles' sixteenth year – still spent homeschooled, with occasional dinners at the extended Hale family home and occasional visits from his insipid childhood friend – the Sheriff _did_ mortgage his house after all and renewed his attack on Peter's guardianship. What was worse was that he'd hired a better class of lawyer and a different judge was evaluating the case. Peter's own lawyer warned him there was a chance he wouldn't win.   
  
It could have been an easy dissolution to the situation. Peter – he hadn't exactly planned or wanted custody of Stiles in the first place. It had just been the easiest and most complete way of controlling Stiles' accusations against him, of directing the narrative. He'd expected, again and again, to eventually bore of the challenge, of the boy. He'd thought once the risk wore off, the everyday would prove too drab and tedious. But if anything, he was even more infatuated.  
  
Everything about Stiles was interesting to him. The way he looked, how he moved; his different patterns of behaviour dependent on if he saw Peter as his guardian or his alpha; his sweet scent, contented in the sun, drowsy in the evening; his sweet, tight, pulsating cunt. Peter had recently taken to fucking Stiles' throat with a dildo, training the gag reflex out of him, and following it with tender makeout sessions after to sweeten the experience. Peter was lucky he had his family's independent wealth to fall back on because he was barely billing hours as a service alpha lately, too lost in studying his own little bonded.  
  
It could have been an easy out, but Peter didn't want it. He wanted to keep Stiles. Forever? Maybe. Probably not. But... for at least a little longer.  
  
***  
  
At sixteen, Stiles was old enough to marry if given his guardian's permission. It was a neat little twist that made Peter smirk. Peter had it done in secret three towns over before anyone could intervene. For his family and society, he presented the image of a sham wedding, the desperate effort of a determined alpha to keep his dependent omega ward with him. He let the Sheriff see his smirk, the gleam of victory in his eyes. Stilinski's rage was wordless and white-fisted.  
  
Peter took Stiles off his birth control shots.   
  
The marriage license and their bond kept Stiles with him for longer, but it wasn't a guarantee. A decent lawyer could and would argue coercion and lack of consent. They could get the marriage annulled. But a pregnancy changed things. You didn't take a pregnant omega from his alpha husband. It just wasn't done.  
  
Peter settled into a rhythm of daily breedings. It was a shame Stiles was a ways from his heat, but he could still catch outside of it. It would just take more dedication. The time pressure of it made things exciting – turned it into a type of race.   
  
Stiles hated being led to the workroom and tied to the bench every day for hours. But it was what had to be done in order for them to stay together. He understood when Peter explained it, gently stroking Stiles' flank. He relaxed and took what Peter gave him.   
  
In the end, it took less than a month for Stiles' scent to change. It stroked Peter in a primal way, made him clingy and possessive, made him at unease if he wasn't touching Stiles. For the first time, Peter nested. He told no one they were expecting, wanting it to be a surprise at the hearing, still trying to think of how to successfully spin it to his family. Maybe he could claim a stressful urgency of the moment mating; perhaps he could fake Stiles going into an early heat that took them both off guard. Something, anything. There was always a path to success. Peter would find it. He had everything he wanted held in his arms. A sweet boy broken in the exact ways Peter liked. A child growing within. A family... Peter never thought of himself as a family man. It seemed laughable even half a year ago. But now it was inevitable; it was right. Peter had everything to lose, which just meant he would fight all the stronger to keep it.  
  
He felt so sure of himself, so content and strong. It was a golden late morning and they stood together in the kitchen, Peter bracketing Stiles' hips with his thighs, circling Stiles' waist with his arms, as they cooked omelettes together on the stove. Perfectly domestic. A future that filled Peter with growling satisfaction stretched out before them. He nosed the side of Stiles' head, lips briefly kissing the tip of Stiles' ear. He caressed the still-flat stretch of Stiles' belly. "Mmm, what do you think, love? A boy or a girl?" He inhaled deeper, taking in his young husband's sweet ripening scent. "I bet it's an alpha."  
  
There was only the briefest of warnings. The thinnest slice of time for Peter to register Stiles stiffening in his arms.   
  
Surprise slowed his reaction. He didn't move out of the way of the first swing of the hot frying pan pulled off the stove, arcing wildly in Stiles' grip. The blow landed across Peter's temple: cracking on the bone, searing heat, the smell of eggs. Peter staggered back and fell against the fridge. Stiles swung again. Again. His face was blank, but he moved like something possessed, furious and fast. Peter got one arm up in defense and it cracked, too, against the onslaught. Stiles caught him across the face again. It was fast – everything moving too fast, too confusing. Everything in disorientation, disarray. Peter was falling. Pain reeled through his head, down his nose – blinded him. The sound was terrible. The sound of his bones splintering inside of him. The shriek of Stiles' mindless screams.   
  
That sound was everything.... it was the only thing. The last thing.  
  
The last thing Peter heard.   
  



End file.
